


Mountain Dew Baja Blast: An Ode

by Kim_Kardashian



Series: Protein or Brotein? [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gym bros, M/M, sharing is caring, typical latino household
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-05 05:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15856905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kim_Kardashian/pseuds/Kim_Kardashian
Summary: Lance is an ass man, and what better way to make friends and be bros than at the gym? He's that guy taking selfies, and he's here to make enemies. Keith is not an exception.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written anything in over a year. honestly, i picture lance to be a hypebeast which is just self-indulgent. my writing hasn't improved but here we are :)  
> [tumblr](http://dicktatorial.tumblr.com/)  
> I made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/neuroclear/playlist/1Nv11dk3YGR0vOCaxaaBVS) because I'm twash

 

 

The shirt was a gift. That’s what he told everyone. A sleek black tee with the simple white text.

_MANWHORE_

It was beautiful. It made him look slim and built (even though his body was still a work-in-progress). He looked like a fuckboy on the outside, but was clearly a dweeb on the inside, a pleasant surprise for the ladies if he, uh, could get any. Emphasis on the ‘if.’ And that whole ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ bullshit still applied hopefully.  

Lance flexed in front of the mirror, Fergie pumping in his Bluetooth earbuds, sweat giving him that sheen that screamed _yeah, I work out? You know my name, not my story. Hustle and grind, protein forever. Bros before hoes, life’s brazy. With a B._

He stopped feeling ashamed after Shiro posted a gym selfie on Instagram, followed by videos documenting his progress, pics of what brand he recommended for particular workouts, diet changes. The whole mile.

“Yeah, but Shiro pulls it off. ‘Cause he’s Shiro. You just look like a douche,” Pidge said, eyes glued to her laptop screen.

“I do not! I’m humble. And, you know, nice. Like Shiro,” he protested, still flexing. Baby progress, but progress nonetheless.  

Pidge ignored him, opening her mouth and Lance already knew what she was going to say before he could cover her baby mouth with his hand Shrek-style. “’Stunting on those hating on me. Get on this wave if you can.’ Your caption on May 13th, posted at 3:27 PM, brown fist emoji, fire emoji-“

“Okay, are you ever gonna let that go?”

“You called yourself humble. I had to make sure you’d stop lying to yourself,” she cut in neatly before typing something else.

“Hunk, are you just going to sit there and-“

“Yes, I am, buddy. This paper isn’t going to write itself.”

“Y’all always hate on me,” he sighed, batting his lashes at his reflection.

“Okay, Miranda Sings, if you say so.”

.

 

He didn’t really know what exactly inspired him to go to the gym, he just knew he didn’t want to be _that_ scrawny Hispanic guy. The one with a bigger bark than bite. He’d gotten in a few fights before in high school, but he was a cross country/track star/soccer boy at heart. Not wrestling, not football, and definitely not rugby.

After gaining seventeen pounds his freshman year, he realized dining hall mozzarella sticks and jalapeño poppers at 10pm would kill him faster than his horrible driving. And Shiro was that cool guy everyone on campus just happened to know. Plus they were both in the Honors program majoring in Social Work, and lived in the same residence hall last year.

It wasn’t that hard knocking on his apartment door, Lance praying he’d be there, and having Shiro surprised but not annoyed to see him. Being with Shiro was being in an Advice Bukkake. Helpful tips, cool links, reliable references rimming his ass like no tomorrow. Yeah, Lance was in heaven, and not just because Shiro looked like he should model for Vogue.

His third set on the stairs finally made his body break a sweat, a pleasant burn in his thighs and calves settling a zing of utter accomplishment.

“Otra más,” he muttered to himself, finding Marc Anthony a little too demanding in his ears. He opened his eyes, giving in to the immense thirst as he shoved his thermos into his mouth. He was the only one on the stairs, but the treadmill caught his eye. Specifically, the treadmill being used by a certain someone with dark purple yoga pants. Now he knew he was an ass man, but this girl clearly loved her ass more than anything based on the fact that it jiggled, but in a toned way (there was a difference). Her ponytail swung in tandem with her arms. He looked away, not wanting to exactly be _that_ guy at the gym, but he did notice that the treadmill next to Purple Girl was blissfully empty.

Maybe, maybe Catholicism was wrong. Wine and bread weren’t signs that God existed. _Dame tu bendición, Diosito. Mamá Teresita._

His grandma would push him over there. So he finished his last set, disinfected the bars his sweaty gross hands had rested on, and made his merry way to where destiny waited. Where Butt Meets Man. He tried to casually settle. Made an act of choosing a workout even though he always clicked on “Hills” and ‘seven mph’. He scrolled through Spotify, like he actually gave a shit, because Lance had Other Priorities. And his main priority right now was to take a personal and close peek of this Purple Lady. Her pace didn’t change or falter. He casually turned to her, and before he could utter anything even slightly interesting, Purple looked at him too.

Purple Lady became Purple Man.

His soul left his body, like when he discovered that babies didn’t come from stars. When he realized that if you leave cookies in the kitchen, Pidge will eat them without hesitation or regard for who they belonged to. When he didn’t know what _mamahuevo_ meant until he proudly claimed himself one to his Dominican girlfriend sophomore year of high school to make her laugh. She refused to speak to him for five days.

He probably stared a bit too long than what was socially appropriate because Emperor Zurg frowned and pulled an ear bud out. Not even Britney Spears could save him now. “Can I help you?”

And up close he could see that yeah, this person was most definitely not a lady friend. He was toned, fit. Holy shit. “I didn’t bring my glasses,” he said, as if that explained anything. Tinky Winky slowed his pace on the machine, fully stopping now. His face was red and splotchy, but no actual sweat was noticeable.

“Okay,” he said slowly, frown deepening into a glare. Lance swallowed, realizing belatedly his t-shirt declared ‘Hentai with Senpai.’ _Abort mission, abort mission_ his brain screamed. “You’re that asshole who’s always taking selfies, right? I’m not gonna be your photographer for your bullshit. The gym is supposed to be for exercise. In case you missed the memo.”

Lance opened his mouth. Closed it. His embarrassment quickly melted into indignant anger. “Listen, Billy Ray Cyrus, I don’t know who broke your achy breakey heart, but don’t hate on me for documenting my personal journey! Eat my ass.”

Now, he was a man of peace. An egg who always wanted to have a good time. A slut for Starbucks, friendship, and memes. But Lance also knew he had the patience of a dictator in a communist country. Yeah, the Ass pulled him in, its gravity stronger than he’d like to admit, but the person this Ass was attached to made this almost not worth it. Flaring his nostrils and clearly not expecting that answer, Count von Count scowled and looked ready to burst at the seams of his expensive UnderArmor gear. “First of all, you approached me-“

“Uh, the treadmill, not _you-“_

“And stared at me like a dumbass-“

“Excuse you-“

“And you have the audacity to tell _me_ to eat your ass when you’re wearing a ‘Hentai with Senpai’ shirt?”

Blinking rapidly and honestly incapable of squawking a response, Lance plugged his ear and pressed play, letting the music take him far, far away from this moment. He refused to dignify anything with a response. His throat wasn’t capable of creating words, or speaking them.

He noticed Billy Ray went back to his workout too, just as determined to bleach their interaction from the universe. Except he kept pressing the speed button, increasing it from his previous level, and nope, Lance knew what games were being played and he would not be beat by a man who had the audacity to roam the world with that kind of wig he calls hair.

He found his index finger pressing ‘increase’, ignoring the horrible pain in his thigh. Mr. Cyrus turned to him, affronted and angry, pushing ‘increase’ with little remorse as well.

They were both at ten.

Their run was in tandem, form impeccable, faces reddening at a frightening pace. He could feel his chest tightening and heart thrumming in his thumbs, but his anger was enough fuel to keep him going. The graphic on his machine showed he wasn’t even halfway through the workout, but he’d rather suffer now and protect what little of his dignity remained.

.

 

Yeah, Lance knew what time Sailor Saturn would come to the gym. They’d have a silent standoff in the locker room, which basically encompassed them mixing water and protein powder aggressively while maintaining eye contact.

At first, Lance wanted to keep this rivalry PG, but then he noted that Ursula happened to use the same protein powder, only his was strawberry. “Strawberry? Really?”

Share Bear raised his brows, unimpressed with the jibe. “Yours is vanilla. A basic bitch choice.”

“That’s what you wanna play at, Chowder? Get ready to eat my ass in the weight room.”

Chowder blinked, protein bottle mid-shake. “You’re really fucking weird. Stop telling me to eat your ass. And my name’s Keith-- not Chowder. So quit it.” Homoerotic threats in the locker room were honestly the best gay porn scenario, but Lance could give less of a fuck if anyone overheard. After Pidge found his Pokémon boxers, he honestly had nothing to fear. Gengar, or Keith, Lance reminded himself, tied his Adidas and stared scathingly at Lance’s Nike’s. Wow.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” This, this was real. They both marched to the weight room, immediately rushing to the same bench press, not even warming up with cardio (stretch before lifting was a motto Shiro had rattled into his brain). Keith plastered his back on the overused cushion. “I’ll spot you,” Lance said, poking his own sternum with much gusto and pride. He had two papers to write after this, and frankly, he’d rather keep an eye on his enemies.

“I don’t trust you, but fine.”

They fell into gradual rhythm, one that came with a really nice ass workout, that honestly made his body hum and practically vibrate after. No one besides Shiro was this passionate about the gym, and Keith matched his stank face just as vibrantly, if not more. The sets were easier to get through when he had a hater ready to snark at any second (Is that shaking I see? Can’t beat your max? You call those noodles arms?)

“I’m—dying, Twilight…Sparkle. Hold it, hold it. Fuck,” he breathed, inwardly amazed when the pressure in his arms died into bliss. He stared at the white ceiling, letting his body recover and shake.

“Why do you keep calling me weird names?” Keith asked, tone genuinely curious. That was the last question he expected. If he wasn’t currently dying, he’d have something cute and fiery on his tongue.

“Your workout gear is purple,” he heard his mouth say. “And I didn’t know your name. Until today.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, I’m amazing. Thanks.”

“More like dumb, but okay.”

.

 

Lance rarely went home, and that was due to the simple fact that he was a busy, busy man. When he wasn’t in class, he was at work. If he wasn’t rotting in homework, balls deep in stats, he was at the gym for his unscheduled workouts with Keith. His brain was constantly on _go, go, go._ An impatience with himself he couldn’t shake, which made him more prone to burning out than Hunk. The only other person who met his fervor with things would be Pidge, and lately Keith. Which was great, but the moment he slammed his fists on his front door, his mother would shower him with food and love.

“Mi habichuelita,” she sighed, pulling him into a hug with little time for him to recover or compose himself. He instantly met with her scent, a mix of Downy and fried food, her head barely reaching his chest.

She let him go and ushered him to the dinner table, where Luis sat jamming his fingers on a graphing calculator. “Look who decided to finally show up,” he said to no one in particular, a grin worming itself on his face.

Lance scowled. “Uh. Need I remind you, I’m doing big bro things out there, in the real world. And what are you doing? Crying over tangent lines. Get on my level.”

With a smirk Lance hated and was all too familiar with, Luis wiggled his brows and flexed mockingly. “Who’s that on your Instagram story though? You’re always at the gym so-“

“Pero coñaso, you don’t miss anything, do you! My profile is _private-“_

“Sigan su paquetazo y van a ver.”

“No, it’s not,” Veronica said, readjusting her face mask as she flicked through Netflix, as if their mother never said anything. “You _do_ realize you synced your Facebook account with your IG, so anything you post on Instagram is on your Facebook. Sucks to suck.”

He swallowed his choice of words the moment his mother slammed down a plate full of rice and beans, yucca tempting him to shut up and indulge on this mountain of carbs. He still let this tiny slip of free time soak in, because after this he had assignments to drown in. The banter that easily flowed kept him sane, and he smiled, finding it hard to remember what made him so uptight.

His mother didn’t ask many questions, only listened to what he had to say, what he chose to share. He tried to cover as much as he could, from his classes, to his goals for Dean’s List this semester. Small things like his workouts. He left out parts where he was a big baby or “pussy monster” (Pidge said it, she said it!).

After clearing his plate, he washed the dishes, letting them all clink and drown in boiling soapy water. There wasn’t much time left before he had to rush in his car. With food-stuffed Tupperware containers, his mother gave him the usual bendición, her smile keeping him going and he slammed his foot on the brake, forgetting that yeah, he got a speeding ticket two weeks ago.

.

 

Mountain Dew Baja Blast was the reason he existed. “Taco Bell isn’t real Mexican food, Lance,” Hunk mumbled, his hands covered in sticky artificial nacho cheese. It was three AM, and here he was, cradling a huge cup of Baja Blast and a big bag full of Crunch Wrap Supremes. Drowning in Diablo and Fire hot sauce packets like a Californian in avocado dip. Peak, this was his peak. “Bro.” He inhaled and felt his dick tingle in happiness. _“Bro.”_

“Don’t ‘bro’ me!”

Pidge’s snoring only made him feel giddy. He turned the music up, letting the bass vibrate and bring her back to life. After his midterms and recitation oral presentation, his soul knew it had to make a comeback, otherwise he wouldn’t be in his top game.

His newest habit was kinkshaming himself. He printed his bank account statement for this month and taped them to his walls (next to his Harry Potter poster and Tyler, The Creator merch), just to remind himself about one important philosophy: the “I have three dollars” Patrick meme. Working at a hospital paid well, but it sucked him dry and he had small expenses to worry about. His gym membership being an essential chunk.

Sometimes he helped his mom out with rent, but most of the time he was bowling too much. It was hard to find fulfilling shit to pass the time for free, so he’d hit up the trail. Or the boardwalk.

He recently fixed up his ancient and barely wheezing Toyota Corolla, not sure why he wanted to risk his life every time he had to go anywhere. But Pidge made herself cozy on the frayed seats, layered with crumbs and dry dog slobber (courtesy of Perico, his diabetic Chihuahua). “So the night is young, am I right or am I right, kids?”

“I have an eight AM tomorrow. The night is over,” Pidge said dryly. The dark skin under her eyes looked like it needed eye cream.

“Girls’ Night In? Masks and Jane the Virgin?” Lance made the most sudden and illegal U-turn, jostling some of the ice cold soda on his lap. His right hand was buried deep in the bag, swirling a nacho fry with so much dip he knew he’d regret it on the toilet later. Hunk held the Crunch Wrap in front of his face because he was A Real One. Taking a giant bite and ignoring Pidge’s “What that mouth do?” meme, he moaned and felt life breathed into every fucking crevice of his soul. His car shuddered as he pushed her to sixty, and just like that, Pidge screamed.

“We might not have a Girls’ Night In if you kill us! When are you going to sell this thing, Jesus Christ, I’m actually not tired anymore. This might be our last meal and I do _not_ want Matt to vandalize my grave.”

“Mi amor, my driving is the fucking best. You have nothing to worry about!”

“You have five points on your license.”

“Hunk, please tell Katherine “Pidge” Holt that I don’t listen to my haters. I’m just…too good.”

Hunk wheezed and didn’t stop Pidge’s baby fingers from completely crushing the Crunch Wrap until it was a mess of ground beef, cheese, and soggy tomatoes.

.

 

Keith was already on the elliptical when he came in, which really meant Lance was late. His hair was tied in a low bun today, but that’s not what caught Lance’s eye. It was the fact that Tinky Winky became Po. His purple get up was now entirely red, and Lance was _quaking._

Purple to red? Was that even possible. His legs took him to the elliptical anyway, ignoring the fluid form Keith’s body moved with, with absolute confidence and brash energy. Keith’s knee faltered when he realized Lance was engrossed with his stats on the machine, eyes furrowing like usual. He lowered the resistance to something bearable, until they both made the challenging eye contact needed to set things in motion.

“What?” Keith asked, slightly breathless, reaching for the Gatorade bottle and chugging like no tomorrow. A light layer of sweat coated his forehead, eyelids greasy and shiny.

“You’re wearing red? When did this character development happen!” He gave Keith a suspicious once-over. “Did you join a cult? Should I be worried?” He leaned closer, cupping his mouth with mock outrage. “Is it because you think I’m in a gang? Because I’m…Cuban? How did you find out?”

“You’re Cuban?”

“Oh, god. I take it all back, it’s definitely not character development. We’ve been working out together for a while, I thought you’d pick up a few things about me!”

Keith stopped moving his legs altogether, the machine cancelling his workout with little remorse. A horrible censored version of a Kanye West song played in the background as other people did their own thing, complete immersion in their own business. Lance could admit he’s a bit slow in picking up certain things, like biology or genetics, but he definitely knew a few things about Keith. Like his strong aversion to water, his ultimate hatred for EDM. “I do know stuff about you. You like hentai. Uh, you like basic shit. And you’re twenty. _Duh.”_

The ‘duh’ was the cherry on this Misunderstanding Cake. They weren’t buddy-buddy, their conversations consisted mainly of counting, tired grunts, the occasional jibe. But this was completely unacceptable because he did not want to be remembered as the Hentai Guy. “You’re…heartless.” Keith shrugged, a small smile on his face as he chugged his Haterade.

They had baby sets today, but what Lance didn’t expect was the sudden pain in his right leg, almost mind-numbingly confusing his protein-infested brain. He hadn’t had shin splints since high school, but here he was in the middle of a real bro session, ending his cool down on the treadmill. He took a few seconds to breathe deeply, _inin-outout_. Besides being able to hear his own blood gushing throughout his body, which was 75% Taco Bell Diablo packets, he could feel his left eye start to twitch.

“You okay?” He looked up and Keith had mirrored his action, only he also abandoned his machine and was awkwardly patting his back like a nanny would. Lance looked at his knee, which twitched and throbbed a bit too, so he just shook his head and resorted to swallowing so much water his cells expanded.

“Shin splint. Sorry to be the party pooper police.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do you want me to drive you home?” Keith being nice was like anime boobs not bouncing. Simply: impossible. But his options weren’t looking that great considering everyone he cared about was either in class or at work.

“Do you think you can drive a death machine?” By death machine he meant his car, but Keith didn’t have to know that.

“I have points on my license,” Keith said matter-of-factly, refolding his gym bandanna. “So if you have a nice car, I’m not sorry in advance.” Lance grinned. This is exactly what he wanted to hear. They gathered their stuff, or more so Keith did, shoving it all in his frayed Adidas sports bag as Lance limped to the locker room. Being sweaty and bros, they had honestly seen each other at their ugliest. Because no one’s cute when they’re exercising. Lance stopped in front of his car, a really hideous and loveable thing, and popped the trunk.

“This is the part where you murder me.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Get out.” It honestly didn’t hurt him in any way to give Keith his keys, the way people cringe when someone else drives their car. He was glad he cleaned her out yesterday, so it smelled like pure Bleu de Chanel and not McDonald’s. Car smells aside, it was nice to watch someone try to adapt to this beast on wheels. Keith quickly readjusted the seat and pulled it forward and he tried not to openly laugh. It physically hurt him every time the engine sputtered to life, as if she was begging to be put out of her misery. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding. How haven’t you died?”

“Her transmission’s fucked. So she has time left, but when she dies, it can be anywhere. I like a girl with mystery. Expect the unexpected. YOLO. Seize the day. Carpe Diem.”

“That philosophy shouldn’t apply to your car.” But that didn’t stop Keith from pushing her from zero to fifty as he swerved out of the lot, making Lance slam back and forth like a fucking hippo on crack.

“Oh, god, you’re worse than me. Dude, dude, I can drive-“

“My license is technically suspended so I’m not supposed to be driving.”

“Was that supposed to comfort me! Because it didn’t.” 

Somehow, _somehow_ , they made it to his dorm. He put Aventura on blast, trying to drown his fear as they weaved in and out the roads so illegally he was sure campus safety would stop them. If this is what Pidge felt every time he drove, he understood why she vandalized his food the other day. It was harder getting out of the car than anything else, considering he was starving and in pain, a deadly combination.

Which one was his real priority? Keith walking up the stairs, carrying his shit, just existing in his room made choosing a lot harder. Like his car, his apartment was just as neat and snazzy. He washed all the dishes, dusted the TV, organized his games by alphabetical order. Vacuumed the crevices of his couch. Honestly, he looked like the hombre derecho his mother always told him to be. A bachelor with his shit together. “You’re supposed to ice it. You have any ice packs in your beloved shit hole?” He loved Keith’s sarcasm and general fearlessness in being a piece of shit.

“I have expired French fries in the freezer.”

“That’s just great. Incredible. Amazing. Hunky dory,” Keith muttered, rummaging through what could possibly be even more disgusting expired shit. Granted, it all belonged to Lance. Not that Hunk had any problem complaining about it every time he came over. He limped over to the small kitchen anyway, slightly embarrassed but also impatient. Before he could squawk an angry “are you done?” Keith pulled out a sad looking chunk of frozen potato. The fries had melded together and truthfully, Lance would still eat it.

“Oh, wow. Wowzies. You realize that our friendship upgraded? Like, you’re at my place? And we work out. We almost died. We’re Hentai Bros. No, no, Hentai Hermanos, because alliteration or whatever.” With an expression he never thought he’d see on Keith’s face (mouth gaping in huge surprise and slight revulsion), it made him cackle as he snatched the potato ice cube and shuffled to the couch. God, it felt good to just sit.

“Why…do you speak? You are the result of _years_ of human evolution, and this is what you decide to say. _These_ are the thoughts you choose to share?”

Lance grinned, biting down a hiss of pain as he stretched his leg. “Anthropology major much?” 

Now it was Keith who coughed a yelp of outrage, personally attacked probably. His sloppy ponytail emphasized how frazzled he seemed. He opened his mouth, closed it, then settled for a tired sigh instead. “Can I sit? On the couch, I mean.”

“Yeah, make yourself cozy.” It amazed him how much this guy resembled a cat. Particularly Jiji from Kiki’s Delivery Service. “So I was right? You’re an anthro major.” He didn’t know why that made him so smug, but it did. Is this what it felt to be Pidge? No fucking wonder.

Plucking imaginary lint from his t-shirt, Keith nodded. “Minor in Asian Studies,” he simply added as an afterthought. “What are you? Business. Social Work. International Relations.” Was he a rapper?

“You’re just assuming those because they’re peppy people options. I, my good sir, am a Health Administration babe. So yes, a combination of all three somewhat. Mostly business. I know I want to do something healthcare, but I don’t want a clinical role exactly.”

Keith hummed, and Lance took the time to assess Keith’s skin like he does for all of his friends. No hyperpigmentation. No scars. A few beauty marks. “Okay, well, this was fun and all-“

“You have oily skin, right? Not combination. Is it sensitive?” He didn’t give room for an answer because like his mother, he was always right. Despite the fact that he had to pathetically almost crawl to his bathroom, he was satisfied he could hear Keith behind him. His bathroom was the only meticulously organized room in his suite. You could eat off the toilet. His sink was shiny and disinfected, his tub had an assortment of LUSH products, and his shelf full of skin care products were a result of frequent visits to Sephora. “Take this. I got an extra one shipped to me by mistake, but consider yourself blessed.” The small Watermelon Glow mask was to die for, quite frankly. “But before that, you’ll need to cleanse and exfoliate. Girls’ Night In is every two weeks, Saturdays, so feel free to drop by after eight. You have no excuse.”

“Thanks? I think. You have a funny way of insulting people.” He squinted as he shook the glass full of pink goop. “Seriously?” He asked, slight awe touching his tone.

Lance nodded and pushed as much conviction in his stare. “Deadly.”

This shitty lighting made him want to invest in little lanterns. A trip to IKEA was definitely mandatory. “I really have to get going, I have to go feed my cat.”

“Alrighty, Twinkle Toes.”

“These are _Adidas-“_ Keith began hotly before Lance pressed a finger gently on his lips. He was glad his vision was shitty enough he confused Keith for a lady three months ago. Otherwise this wouldn’t be happening.

“Do you hear that?” He whispered, leaning in close. “It’s the sound of me not giving a shit. Nike’s for life.”

“I hate you.”


	2. Chapter 2

He iced his lower leg for the next few days and felt like rotting. Going to the gym gave him purpose, and he wondered whether Keith was having a good time without him. But Hunk stopped by, cooked like no tomorrow and took the time to clear his fridge from everything. They were technically roommates, but Hunk spent the nights at Shay’s dorm, probably doing couple-ish things.

The suck. The thrust. The _thing._

So that left Lance filling the void here, usually with Pidge. But he wasn’t a slob. He vacuumed, washed the dishes, kept the table set. He just wasn’t that great at taking care of himself with his diet. “Man, I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Gengar.” Julia Roberts did nothing to comfort him.

Hunk kneaded the dough and looked up, confused. “The Pokémon? You can watch him on Netflix.”

Lance buried his face in a pillow. “No, I mean Keith. My buddy, my gym bro. He has really nice hair, like Selena Gomez. Wizards of Waverly Place Selena Gomez.” He sighed, throwing his arm dramatically over his head. “I’m _bored,_ Hunk. Our workout would be over by now. And my class was cancelled, so there goes my leftover daily interaction.”

“I’m making cookies. I think that’ll help,” he said, smiling. It would, he knew. But he still remained restless, because of his stupid leg. The Whey Protein container mocked him from a distance. “Do you think giving Shay a promise ring is a little too much? Like a silver ring? Or like, you know, something like that?”

He regarded the sudden change of demeanor and awkward way Hunk looked at the counter. His chest “Aw’d”. “Well,” he started, knowing he had to choose his words carefully, no impulsive shit, “if you see—a future with our darling Shay, a great and beautiful one full of sharing prune juice and cuddling, I don’t see why not? You’re the whole package, she’s the whole package. If a physical object like a ring means a lot to you and that’s how you want to show her how much you care, then go ahead. Have you taken a shit around her?”

Hunk squeaked. “Oh goodness,” he wailed, cheeks darkening. “Yes. But I don’t understand how that’s relevant.”

Smirking, he propped his chin on his elbow. “She’s basically meant for you, bud.” What he did not expect was for Hunk to burst into tears mid dough-kneading, bottom lip quivering like Dobby from Harry Potter.

“You’re such a good friend, Lance. Did I ever tell you that?” He gasped wetly.

“Don’t cry, or I’ll start crying.” Hunk hiccupped in response, their bromance interrupted by the hesitant knocking of the door. “I’ll get it, it’s probably Shiro with the winter break forms.”

It was not Shiro. Keith, in his post-gym shower glory, stared at him with the most unexpressive face possible, duffel in hand.

“I’m here to see how you’re doing, since you’re probably a dumbass at home too.” Wow, his heart just— it squeezed itself. 

“I missed you too, Gengar,” he murmured wryly, severely tempted to squish Keith’s cheeks.

He could see Hunk try to dab away the tears in his periphery, but it was obvious he was crying with his swollen red eyes. “Is-Is this Keith, that guy you keep telling us about,” he managed, hyperfocusing on the dough. These cookies were never going to exist. Lance held a mental funeral, slightly melting because he loved attention and Keith was here to give it to him. Delivered right to his door, no effort had to be made to go to the gym.

$Free.99

Wednesday special, with a side of best friend tears.

The silence stretched on, Keith blinking and clearing his throat pointedly, eyes shifting like he was trying to gauge the situation.

“Yeah!” Lance announced, a bit too loud. “This here, is Keith “Gengar” Kogane. Anthropology major, Asian Studies minor. Obsessed with old Taylor Swift, wearing the color red at all times, Professional Dick. Probably prone to renal issues in the future considering he barely drinks water. A Southern babe from Texas, like Beyoncé, a real cowboy, yee-haw. Keith, this is Hunk.”

“You like old Taylor Swift?” Hunk asked, easing to his usual self in a matter of seconds. “Like _Red_ Taylor or _Fearless_ Taylor?” It wasn’t clear which Taylor was preferable.

Flushing furiously, but straightening with the same composure he did when he was going for the extra set, Keith choked out what could possibly be the word “Fearless.” His ears looked inflamed. “I just wanted to make sure Lance wasn’t being a dumbass,” he said weakly, and Lance only squeezed that toned arm in response.

“That’s really sweet of you. I’m baking cookies, stay until they’re done. Lance, why don’t you give him something to drink. We have sparkling water, coconut water, CapriSun, um, what else? Strawberry lemonade. Orange juice.”

“I finished the CapriSun,” Lance admitted, opening the fridge and scanning for a schnack. Healthy, since he’d have to start cutting for the sake of getting back to his usual form. “Which is it, Keith? We gave you the menu.”

“Orange juice I guess.” They convened around Hunk, watching the way his large hands easily carved designs on a small cake from the morning. He forgot Keith looked incredible post-workout, especially his ass. He could only dream of having one like that someday. “What are you _wearing?_ It looks—“

“Flattering. Classy. On point. Thanks,” he breezily finished, fishing for some vodka and pouring it in a wine glass. Yeah, he did that. A glop of orange juice to make that shit run smooth. His navy blue Nautica robe was his prized possession for at home relaxing. An essential part of who he was once class was over. This, and lavender oil incense. “I’m _only_ wearing my robe. And boxer-briefs. Look.” He let the robe fall mid-hip, like a classy showgirl. Keith didn’t say anything, furrowing his brow.

“You have a tattoo, I didn’t know that?” It snaked its way down his rib cage to his thigh, a string of tocororo perched on a branch. The vibrant colors contrasted with his dark skin, the detail so vivid Lance couldn’t believe it was going to always be a part of him.

“She was pricey, but worth it. My mom doesn’t know about it yet.” He shrugged his robe back on, swigging the vodka around a bit before swallowing. “It’s a tribute to where I’m from.”

He poured more orange juice in the glass before Keith could ask for any more. Hunk hummed along to Taylor Swift (“Tear Drops on My Guitar”), before carefully placing the pan in the preheated oven. Those cookies were happening after all.

.

 

“Um, why are there four pages of actual text, and only one for the bibliography? The bibliography isn’t part of the page count, Lance. This isn’t high school!” Pidge crumpled the works cited page mercilessly in her baby hand. “Write another page. Stretch the conclusion. Write another paragraph. I don’t care. Channel your inner Hemingway, please.”

The library wasn’t packed on Tuesday’s, which made writing papers and not dealing with people possible. He almost got into a fight with another kid for the last seat in the computer lab last semester. “What else am I going to write about this? ‘Colonialism is bad. The end.’ I’m tired. I can’t wait to go home and take a fat nap.” Pidge decidedly ignored him, if her incessant typing is anything to go by. “Katherine. My dear Katherine, can you please—“

“I get it, Lance. Keith isn’t here to stroke your ego dick, but I miss the days when you’d shut up and just write your paper. A girl has homework to finish. And so do you.”

He didn’t know what clenched first: his jaw, or his anus. _Oh, my god. Ego dick?_ “What does Keith have to do with anything? And who said I’m not going to write this goddamn-“

“Keep your voice down!” Pidge hissed, kicking his shin. “We’re at a library, not the bedroom.”

He bristled anyway, because he has never _ever_ lowered his voice anywhere. Telling him to shut up only fueled his vocal cords. “I would have if you didn’t bring Keith into this.”

She sighed and covered her face with her hands, a shudder hitting her baby shoulders. “God,” she said, voice muffled. “Look, I know you’ve been dating for a short amount of time, but you both hurt me. And not in a good way like memes do. That attitude you have at the gym should stay at the gym. Write. Your. Paper.” Her tone had a finality only his mother had when she was close to smacking the shit out of him.

“We’re not dating, Katherine ‘Pidge’ Holt.” He didn’t appreciate her tone. It had the snob and snoot Veronica used whenever she beat someone at dominos. Wow. That explained why her and Matt were always winking around him.

She snorted out a cough. “Oh, okay. It’s not like you both bring each other food after class. Share protein. You share your Drunk Elephant Sukari mask with him! The one you don’t share with anyone else. Not even Hunk.”    

 “It’s eighty dollars at Sephora! And Keith needs it more than any of you do, thank you very much. Coñaso.” It sounded like the time he was trying to persuade his mother he only liked women. _Boobs,_ he had repeated. _Boobs. Culo. Curvas._

She narrowed her eyes into beady satanic slits. “I don’t know what that means, but I know it’s not nice. Just admit it. I _know_ you, Lance. You’re an ass man. You live for ass-“

Now it was him hissing “Keep your voice down!” The fucking irony.

“-you want to drown in his. He has some for now, some for later. You really expect me to believe it wasn’t your thirst that led you to approach him in the first place. At the gym? _Please.”_

All she needed to conclude her verdict was a classic bubblegum pop. Lean on a heavily graffitied wall with a cigarette in her mouth. He had nothing to say to that. He just got caught red-handed, and he hasn’t even asked Keith out on a date yet. Pero like? She wasn’t wrong.

.

Ever since Pidge declared him the Ass Man, he’s focused on all the ass around him. It shamed him to concentrate on Hunk’s during his yoga session. Shiro whenever he found a “lucky dime.” But he carried on with life, fully plunging into his cousin’s son’s baptism. For some odd reason, one he still couldn’t fathom himself, she thought Lance would be a wonderful godfather, a model for an ideal Catholic man. He let his robe slip off dramatically as he stood in the center of their living room, donning only Armani underwear and navy blue Crocs.

“Call me,” he whispered as he ran a hand through his damp hair, “el padrino.”

“You’re lucky you’re extremely good at chem, because I would leave,” Allura sighed, crossing her arms. “Lance, I have practice in an hour, can you please just help me with this question?”

“I will, I will,” he waved off, and decided that being shirtless in front of Allura was like flashing a McDonald’s meal to the CEO of Amazon. “Let me get ready first.”

“The baptism is in three hours! You have plenty of time.” That was the wrong thing to say, because Lance had the patience of a dying cockroach when it came to a deadline.

“Okay, okay.” And he sucked in a breath, not stopping as he gave a very detailed explanation of the mole and converting shit with the periodic table. His neat handwriting contrasted comically with Allura’s loopy scribble. “Once you get the hang of it, the math will be easy. If you get stuck you can always hit me up. Not on Facebook though.” She nodded, an easy look of determination making her crush the tip of her pencil harshly. He left her working on the next few problems, not the least bit bothered as he applied eye cream and serum. Plucked a stray brow hair near his eyelid. His suit was tailored, yes, gelled hair whipped to the side. Edges clean, lips exfoliated, teeth flossed, Bleu cologne sprayed. Daddy Yankee could never.

“You…clean up nice,” Allura said, giving him a once over. “Straighten your tie. Your left cuff’s uneven. Set your watch to the right time, you’re an hour behind.” How she noticed that was beyond him, but that’s why he had Allura for big events. Or events that mattered to him anyway. She wasn’t afraid to critique his fashion choices and could pick a mistake or slight ambiguity with a mere glance. She stood up, cracking her back, still looking at him. He shifted nervously again.

“What’s wrong?” El padre said he had to be there early. Receive people, greet them. Station the photographer. Spend time with his godchild. His palms were slick.

“Nothing,” she said simply, pride in those two syllables. “You look handsome. You’re going to do great. Bloody great.”

A shy, small smile he couldn’t help cover made her laugh. A weak tear pricked the corner of his eye. “Don’t. Not right now. I set my concealer, mujer.”

Without warning, she shoved him outside his apartment, and to his very nerve-wracking surprise, Keith waited with his hands in his pockets by the stairs. But this time he felt a bit naked, and Keith’s seen him at the gym, sweaty and red faced, veins bulging, ugly as hell. Lance _tried_ to look good, and he appreciated Keith only nodding semi-approvingly with a funny expression on his face.

“You, look…presentable. Finally,” he said, picking at his flannel. “I’m driving you there. Your car won’t make it.”

“The rosary and candle-“

“Are in my car. So is the seashell.”

“My gift-“

“Is in my car. Lance, let’s go.” Keith’s surprisingly beautiful Toyota Tacoma waited, looking like a steed next to his tin can. His sizzle of nerves refused to quell, but he appreciated the slight reassurance from Keith’s barely there smile. Keith’s car was always boiling hot and smelled like cinnamon, something Lance acquainted with their late-night shopping at Taco Bell (much to Keith’s obvious disgust).

Lance knew he could shift through the radio stations until he found something he liked. It used to bother everyone in the car at first, but it gave his hands something to do. The church was pretty close, but still far enough for his own car to suffer in the process. He jumped out, a small seashell tucked in his pocket, the small red-beaded rosary pressing into his chest. He gave Keith final furtive glance, one full of raw apprehension. “How do I, uh, look? Be honest.”

“Be honest,” Keith repeated. He straightened the rearview mirror, dark eyes concentrating at nothing in particular. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Dazzling,” he said finally, as if it was the most natural word rolling through his tongue. And Lance knew that with Keith there’s always an invisible ‘duh.’

.

 

The mass was long and honestly sucked the soul out of him (like Satan, but he would never say that joke in front of his mother). But he loved the baptism himself. He had given the shell to the priest and tried to settle his nephew as calmly as possible in a gentle embrace. It’s no shocker to start crying when an old man in red robes pours cold water on your forehead as you have a clear view of a bloodied man on a cross. Hunk, Pidge, and Shay came halfway through dressed in their Saturday best. They awkwardly clambered through the pews with whispered sorry’s. Keith and Shiro texted him what time should they stop by tonight. Not many people came, only relatives and few selected family friends.

But today was more than just the erasure of original sin. Tonight was Girls’ Night In, AKA masks, one romcom, one horror, and a baby potluck. Maybe alcohol, maybe Monopoly. Whichever killed them first.  

So after mass he went to the reception, where he danced and mingled with his family and his cousin’s husband’s family. A mandatory action in a Catholic and Cuban party, Jesucristo would _approve._ The music pulsed through the entire hall, the bass rumbling in his chest as he swayed and twirled nameless partners.

He tried to show Pidge salsa steps, forgiving her for almost crushing his foot with her kitten heels. The blue lighting cast over her made her look like a pixie, a little Tinker Bell. Hunk, on the other hand, charmed Shay bachata song after bachata song. They left first though, squeezing in inescapable hugs from his family. It was more difficult for him, the godfather, _el padrino,_ to snake away when everyone was determined to express their appreciation or awe for the reception. If Lance was competent in anything, it was scheming out a good party.

He lost track of who wanted to dance with him, but he swayed his hips anyway, settling his hand on this woman’s waist, pulling her closer. Salsa was always his poison. She was his cousin’s friend, and only spoke of her son. It was hard to remember so many faces, but when he finally danced long enough to excuse himself, he fast-walked out, blazer wrinkled beyond belief.

“Going somewhere?”

He jumped, instinct making him blurt a suspicious “No!” Veronica grinned, arms crossed and legs propped on the ledge with knowing McClain deviance.

“Want me to drive you there?” The question struck him as hilarious. She still wore her nun teal glitter dress, but he could tell she was suffering if her pin-up bun had something to say about that. They were the only ones with curly gravity-defying hair in the family, so curly it was frizzy if there wasn’t any product on hand. Ever since he discovered pomade, he’s been interview-presentable, but he kept his hair cropped short the past year anyway. Vero’s hair, on the other hand, that had a will of its own. It was impossible to brush or detangle, coiling until it was a knot of pain. She hated dancing, or mingling, almost like Keith. He smiled at the thought of Keith socializing with a rowdy bunch like his family.

“You want to do _me_ a favor? Deadass?”

She huffed a small “carajo” under her breath as her dress got stuck on a hedge. “Deadass. You’re lucky mom gave me the car keys to babysit.” And with that she scooped up her heels and walked barefoot to the car. She didn’t even dignify the patience for a response. Wow. Unlike him, her driving was careful, deliberate. She triple-checked at crosswalks, stopped before white lines. Real pride puffed up in his chest. He forgot it smelled strongly of his mother’s favorite Calvin Klein perfume, something she spritzed religiously whenever she left the house.

He also forgot Vero was a little turtle. Hard shell, only peered out in search of her haters. She didn’t say anything, keeping her eyes faithfully on the road with such serene nonchalance. “Wow, someone’s quiet,” he snarked, leaning on the dash. 

“You have a boyfriend, don’t you?”

Why did he try? Why did he speak? Keith was right. He goes in for a poke, she responds with a stab. “Everyone’s telling me that,” he sighed with mock exasperation. “I know it’s hard to believe this killer face isn’t taken.”

She rolled her eyes and coyly grinned. “You’ve been extra confident lately,” she mused. “Someone’s toning you down and matching your energy.” He refused to ask her to elaborate and thanked the universe his campus apartment was a short drive. With a small kiss on her cheek, he wolfishly winked and ran to his uneven stairs.

The moment his door was within sight, he exhaled and let the built-up tension marinate his bones. The soles of his feet hurt, his shoulders ached, but he could already hear the raucous laughter and immediately wanted to join in. They stopped once he stepped on the one creaky spot, yet he flung the door wide open anyway, bowing deeply. “It is me…el padrino. Who you’ve all been waiting for.” Shiro shook his head, apron covered in flour, Adam mid-yoga pose in the corner.

Pidge, still in her green dress and heels, frowned. “You’re early. Keith gets out in half an hour, Allura is on her way now.” Hunk continued sautéing the onions and soy sauce, the smell predicting a banging stir fry. There was a tossed salad on the coffee table, an unopen bottle of cheap wine, and some Cheez-It’s in a bowl. It was hard to believe he was in mass all morning, and just dancing his socks off with the entire bustle of his family.

Before he could completely remove his blazer or remove any evidence of where he’s been, there was hesitant knock on the door. His small intestine coiled with excitement, _holy shit._ Only Keith knocked like that. Lo and behold, he and Allura walked in without comment. He didn’t have the heart to question why Keith was early because his soul was:

:)

“You still look dashing,” Allura said airily, setting the foiled brownies down. He flushed, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his cuff. Pidge’s half-assed attempt to smother her snort made kicking her an appealing option. Keith gave him the usual side-smile, before looking absolutely shocked the more he surveyed the room.

_“Shiro?”_

Shiro raised his brows, not the least bit perturbed at the outburst. His strong forearm held a spare chair. “Yes?” Lance had never seen Shiro feign innocence so sarcastically.

“You hang out here on Saturday’s? With Adam?” Keith asked incredulously, crossing his arms, a habit Lance knew Keith had when he was nervous. “You know _Lance?”_

He said ‘Lance’ the way someone would say _loser_ or _dweeb._ “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Everyone knew Shiro, it’s just a standard in this school. And Lance knew that he wasn’t that bad to hang around with despite his terrible jokes and light-hearted flirting. Keith’s cheeks reddened without remorse. Clearly, something was left unsaid.

Shiro shrugged with a wry smile, his eyes glinting with something secretive. “Yeah, he helped a lot with my scar healing. And I’m his AA on campus.”

And that was that. He didn’t know why him knowing Shiro was a problem, but that was a problem for Future Lance to ponder. It felt great to change into his silky pajama bottoms, wear his fuzzy socks, and have his lounging robe brushing softly on his back. “So, Keith Kogane, welcome to our Girls’ Night In. I’m your host, Lance. You may call me papi-“

Everyone groaned and Pidge kicked his good shin without hesitation. “Basically, we do masks and watch movies. There’s food. The end,” she waved off. With a huff and pout, Lance stalked over to the stove where the stir fry was cooling.

“Should I buy sesame chicken from across the street?” He asked no one in particular. There wasn’t any chicken in the fridge for him to season and grill. And boy did some sesame chicken sound nice.

He was going to get takeout anyway, but Hunk’s tired nod was motivation enough. “You should go with him, Keith,” Shiro piped in. “It’s standard to bring food and he shouldn’t go alone at this time.”

Keith shot Shiro a scathing glare and re-zipped his Docs before he could properly sit down. “Right,” he agreed, tone terse.

“You don’t have to come-“

“I want to,” Keith replied shortly, readjusting his baseball cap. There was something suspicious going on, his gut screamed. Not that he would make a scene here in his living room (c’mon, he wasn’t an _animal_ ). He took his wallet and let Keith take the lead out. The stairs creaked underneath their weight, yesterday's rain casting a slight scent of mildew. It was so late, he could already feel the bags underneath his eyes brewing. His family was probably still celebrating, and his dog was probably pacing the patio, slobbering over a pink plush. Their neighbors were quiet and crickets had taken the liberty to be as loud as possible. He couldn’t help the shiver racking his body as cold air whipped between his thighs. No one wandered out this late. Besides them of course. Fast-changing lights and cars whipping by slowly made crossing their newest mission. “How was the party?”

“Coño, it's cold.” His hands rubbed together vigorously. “Uh, it was nice, I think. I made sure things were running smoothly. The cake came in late. But I’m pretty glad about how things turned out,” he said, opening the door. The neon lights flickered, glass too muggy for him to see through. Regardless of how seedy it looked, this place served some good shit. The woman at the counter startled as they walked in. They probably looked suspicious too, him in just his bathrobe and Keith in his ratty boots and over-sized jean jacket. A pimp and his baby.

“Just sesame chicken, right?” Keith murmured, gaze hard on the menu. The bags under his eyes didn’t take away his handsome, rugged look. Before Lance could say anything, Keith slid a bill on the counter. “Not the combo. And can I have some hot and sour soup, uh, small.”

“You didn’t have to pay for it!” He protested, but it was too late anyway. They sat on the only booth they had, the cushion well-worn and lacking any resistance. He felt pretty weird knowing anyone could yank his robe off and _bam_ , he’s exposed.

“It’s alright.” He watched as Keith’s knuckles tapped the table to some nonexistent beat. His fingernails were evenly trimmed and the shitty lighting did nothing to make him gross or any less pretty.  

“Why is me knowing Shiro a bad thing?” He asked suddenly, not missing the flinch and disappearing eyebrows. Subtlety and patience weren’t his virtues. The first time he realized that was when he raised his hand confidently in middle school and asked what a blowjob was. But aiming for the throat was what he always did and it gave him the answers he wanted.

Keith gave him a look, one that explicitly said _I-don’t-appreciate-your-question._ “It’s not,” he said. “Shiro is my step-brother,” he clarified when Lance only raised a skeptic brow. “He likes to mess with me in front of people.”

There was a nugget nudging his brain that something else was amiss. “But you didn’t want him to know me,” his vocal cords blurted out anyway. “Am I not, like, cool or whatever?”

“Or whatever,” Keith echoed. The way his dark eyes mulled over the question gave Lance the urge to strangle him.

Omitted truths = Fine. But edited truths = I think the fuck not.

“Just be honest with me.” Keith’s general disposition made sense. The way he was quiet, but his smart mouth was one only Shiro could probably coax out of him. It took Lance a while to crack the guy, he was like a hardboiled egg. Shed the shell, get past the white, thick snack, and ba-bam, you get to the center, to the Real Shit, the protein. The Bro-tein. So he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that right now, Keith wanted to think before speaking.

There was a brief pained look, it made Keith look more tired. But nope, Lance was not going to cave in, not now. “That day we met,” he started slowly, each word so deliberate Lance wondered if the guy had a script under the table, “why did you choose the machine next to me?”

Pidge’s gross little troll face, frozen mid- heehaw, flashed in his mind and made a horrible flip in his insides. He could feel the warmth on his face. “I was going to hit on you,” he said, surprised his words left steadily. “I had a pick-up line in this wonderful head of mine. Your ass looked great that day. Una hermosura.” Maybe he was tired. Maybe it was Diosito enlightening him on this particular Saturday.

Nothing in the world prepared him for Keith’s hiccupped yelp, his entire face putting his blood vessels on blast. Yes, Lance was aware he was basically naked, in an empty Chinese takeout joint, it was two in the morning, and Keith was unabashedly embarrassed like a nun in an orgy. “What was it?” he asked, a slight wheeze humoring his chest.

Lance grinned, leaning his head on his arm, smirk intensifying so much his cheeks hurt. If only he had a Crunch Wrap Supreme, he’d be in heaven right now. “Tienes tanta curva y yo sin freno.” There was no hesitation there, it came out of his little bisexual heart. He didn’t have time to relish any reaction because Keith’s confusion killed the heaviness he had planned.

“What does that mean?” That Texan drawl snatched his soul.

“You have all these curves and I have no breaks,” he said cheerfully, “but you still haven’t finished being honest. Your turn, cowboy.”

“Right.” There it was again. That constipated face Keith made whenever he was bracing himself for a heavy set, ready to tease his max at the gym. “Okay. Right.” He wrinkled his nose, exhaling sharply. “Do you want to go hiking with me next week? Mount Tammany, then Appalachian Trail,” he said as he kept his eyes focused on the table. There were doodles and scratched initials littering the surface. Lovers, older ones by now, had probably come here and sat, had a convo, treated themselves to highly caloric food.  A great way to spend the time.

“So you wanted to go hiking with me and didn’t have the guts to ask. Damn, Keith, I thought you-“

“It’s a date, dumbass,” he snapped, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “I’m trying to take you out, be one with nature, all that romantic shit you like. We’re old and for some really strange reason, I like you. Not that I planned on it, but I told Shiro and he never said anything about knowing who you were.”

“How _dare_ you? I was supposed to make the move. I literally planned to ask you out after ice cream next week. And we’re not old, we’re twenty,” he sniffed, slightly, no, _very,_ touched by Keith’s most un-romantic confession. He was called a dumbass _and_ loved? Daddy Yankee could never.

Keith smirked, suddenly drawing himself up straight on his chair. God, his confidence was just…cute. “Slow as always, McClain, I’m always coming up first. Keep up. Get right or get left.”

The bell dinged, and that was their cue to get their food, but Lance already had a long night and crushing Keith in a "bro" hug was all he could think of. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a disclaimer some of you may not care about: i’m not cuban or from the islands. i’m ethnically mexican. there are cultural differences and dialects in spanish, and slang that i would not use but a dominican/puerto rican/ any caribbean person would. ex. i don’t use “coño” when i speak/curse in spanish. however, i also want to make it clear that i’ve grown up with dominicans & puerto ricans (and even they have slight shifts in their cultures as well, despite being close geographically) and have rarely met cubans. so how accurately I depicted Lance here can be questionable in certain parts, just an fyi. I wanted to say this bc i know canon lance is exclusively from cuba, and i americanized him here bc I, myself am an americanized piece of shit. I’ve read works by ppl who include Spanish dialogue, etc. and I can tell when it’s just copied and pasted from google translate. It’s okay, it’s just that Spanish fluctuates according to region. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! My tumblr is dicktatorial, come talk to me, or send me prompts :)

**Author's Note:**

> *Dame tu bendición, Diosito. Mamá Teresita: give me your blessing, god. Grandma Teresa  
> *Otra más- another one  
> *mamahuevo- It’s Dominican slang for ‘ball sucker’; offensive depending on the context  
> *Mi habichuelita- my little bean. Another word for bean is ‘frijol,’ but I’ve always noticed that beans are generally referred to as habichuelas by Dominicans and Puerto Ricans/other Caribbean Hispanics  
> *Pero coñaso- Coño is slang in DR/Cuba for ‘damn.’ I used coñaso because it’s more dramatic. Roughly what he says is “But damn!”  
> *Sigan su paquetazo y van a ver- directly translates to follow your big package and you will see (a phrase that means ‘keep that shit up and y’all will be sorry’)  
> Thank you so much for reading!


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